Promises and Vows
by plaidshirtjimkirk
Summary: The love story began in Edo and that's where Saito thought it ended...until Sano appeared in his life, a decade later. Now, in order to move forward, he has to reflect on what was left behind and finally fulfill the vow he made to his first love. Can he? And is Sano willing to still walk this path with him afterward? A companion piece to my story, Sheath. [Established Saisa&Okisai]


Thanks for checking this out! As mentioned in the summary, this is a companion to my story, Sheath. You don't necessarily have to read that first, but I recommend doing so since it's the foundation I used to write this particular piece. Also, Promises and Vows begins in the middle of the final scene of Sheath...so if you've not read it and want to, please know the ending is totally spoiled by the first line. XD

I adore Saito deeply as a character, not only for his strength but how incredibly adaptable he is. It's unimaginable how difficult it was to claw his way up from nothing at the beginning of the Meiji, only to become productive and obsessed with keeping Japan safe from corruption. This story is how I imagined it happened, and how Sano fits into all of it.

Quick heads up: The first chapter contains a canon character death that takes place right after the Bakumatsu. If that's troubling for you and you'd like to skip it, I have a summary written at the end so you can catch up and proceed with the next when it's posted. If you're okay with that and want to ramp up the feelings, you might wish to listen to A Heavy Heart by Anthony Greninger while you read; it's a gorgeous song and I wrote this section to it. EMOTIONS! AGH!

* * *

 **The End is Only the Beginning**

"His name was Okita."

In his peripheral vision, he could see Sano's face snap upward and though no words were spoken, Saito felt the questions forming from inquisitive eyes boring into him.

A veil of morning sunlight masked the previous night's chill, causing the air to feel not quite like autumn and leaving evidence of the season better detected by other senses; blotches of crimson and gold littered the graveyard, the leaves crunching underfoot as Saito walked to a particular aisle and turned right.

Even after all this time, he could still recall the exact location.

"Captain of the first Shinsengumi unit." It was rare for compulsion to influence Saito into filling heavy silence. After all, he was often the one to revel in quietude while Sano resorted to such idle noise; now the tables had turned and he reached up awkwardly to his breast pocket, as if touching the half-empty cigarette box was a necessity to ensure it was still there. His toes flexed in his shoes.

"He loved sake, the color blue, and camellia. No one could ever understand why he chose a bad luck symbol as his favorite flower." There was a huff, and Saito's digits slipped from his uniform. His eyes lifted, settling on a particular stone in the distance. "…but that was the kind of person he was."

"You…were close," Sano suggested, following with hands tucked into pockets and his shoulder ghosting beside Saito's. There was no bitterness or jealousy in his tone, not that either had been anticipated—yet, anyway. But after spending so many days that drew their hearts even nearer than they already had been, Saito supposed something along those lines wouldn't have been an unfair reaction.

After all, taking the one he was with to visit the grave of the one he lost without any forewarning was a little more than blindsiding. Still it seemed better to open himself to Sano this way instead of casually fact-dropping a metric ton over dinner or when they lay entwined in bed. Therefore, visiting the cemetery in Kyoto together before heading back home had been the unspoken plan.

How to most effectively go about the rest now though, Saito still hadn't decided; his capacity to speak from the heart had never been his strong suit and the current inability to foresee the outcome of this confession was distressing for one so skilled in predicting human behavior. It was sensible, he supposed, to simply start at the beginning, allowing the best way to proceed from that point and amount of necessary detail to divulge to present themselves in the critical moments which followed. Sano's reaction would dictate everything.

What Saito remained absolutely certain of, however, was that standing in this very location was another imperative step to move forward and the long-waiting fulfillment of a promise made so many years ago. It had been a vow softly spoken as the great curtain of Edo fell, when a love story had written itself onto the fabric of Saito's soul in permanent ink.

For a decade, he'd believed that tale had ended forever, that the period marking the final sentence was the tragic conclusion he would always carry with him.

…until a pair of wrapped hands took up the pen out of nowhere and somehow, for some reason, began continuing it.

It was just as Okita had said, and exactly what Saito had been incapable of believing for the entirety of a decade. Now here he was, with Sano in tow and full intention of admitting he'd been wrong aloud. What would come from that and whether his palm would remain pressed against Sano's, or find itself empty on the way back to Tokyo, was soon to reveal itself.

On that thought, Saito's polished shoes slowed and he pivoted slowly, coming to a stop before a tomb inscribed with the name _Okita Souji_. There was no outward distress, no grand emotional uprising...but a breath fell heavier than he'd meant.

"Close," he reiterated at last. "Yes." The pause thereafter felt longer than it was. "We were."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Shinsengumi Barracks, Mibu. July 19, 1868—a day that would forever live in infamy.

Saito's vision blurred with a vapid stare.

Before him stretched a long hallway, lined with dark cedar wood flooring and light shoji doors. He'd taken it countless times: could navigate his way through it even in his sleep, knew every room and the creak of each floorboard. This corridor was plain and prosaic, looked no different from any other used for housing, and yet it was special enough to have become the most important part of the barracks to him.

At this moment however, as the passage of time lagged and Saito stood on the slowly disintegrating precipice of sanity, this place he'd known as well as his own name became new and threatening and terrifyingly unrecognizable.

Because it was. Because so much was already missing. And by the time dawn set in to embrace the horizon, Saito would have lost it all at last; something of unrivaled importance would _always_ be absent by then, would have left behind only a gaping void in an already broken soul that could never be stitched back together. By then, the pen would have run out of ink and a story that should have lasted a lifetime would meet its abrupt end.

A palm pressed to Saito's shoulder—whose it was, he wasn't certain, but it prompted him to break from his trance and begin the same walk down this hall he'd embarked upon, day after day and night after night. It was the familiar walk that was no longer familiar, and the one that would never be the same again…the one that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Soft-spoken words from comrades faded into nothing when Saito's consciousness hyper-focused on every step, every breath, every heartbeat resonating within his ears. His shoulders rose and fell with the motions, his hands limp and open at his sides.

Within a sea of stars the moon bled silver, stretching through open porch doors, across the tatami in each empty room, and to the interior, lighting this path once bathed in summer gold and promise and...

Saito's tongue poked out to wet his dry lips.

Ahead, he could see phantom hands that he knew so well: smaller than his own, spread at the fingers and soaring through airy streams of imagined sunlight. A blue uniform danced in kind with graceful movements, with the gentle swing of a high ponytail. The memory played at the same pace Saito's steps fell, and he witnessed the face in this recollection turning to peer over the shoulder—saw rims of dark lashes falling in slow motion and a gentle smile blooming outward to the cheeks, saw breath taken in by healthy pink lips with no hesitation. And then he saw those eyes open again and meet his own.

That had been the moment Saito knew—right in this very corridor—that he loved him. But this gilded flashback was nothing more than a stark contrast with the darkness and emptiness of an inescapable reality. It was the reality encompassing him now, shrouding him in the cold clenches of lowly mortal constraints and binding his ankles with invisible shackles of heartbreak.

Concentration was all he had left to keep himself together as the memories resurfaced and inundated him while pressing forward. One foot before the other…one inhale after the next…

The reds of autumn, the ivory chill of winter, cherry blossom pink in the spring…the sweetness of the kiss he loved, the warmth of the body he fell asleep pressed to, the touch of calloused fingertips against his face… A million sensations, a million recollections, all associated with this hall and the times they'd traveled down it together, with purposeful intent to fall into the exact room Saito now dreaded to reach.

Their footsteps had first fallen on these floorboards in a shy walk, then morphed into a run and finally an energetic bound as the bond strengthened and two hearts synchronized to the same metronome.

But now, everything was different. Time passed and the ravages of illness took and took. The pinnacle of that liveliness had diminished to a run and back to the pace of the same first walk filled with reservation, and further yet—to a limp, then a crawl.

His feet dragged over the point where his nobler half once collapsed into a heap of blue and white, heaving and struggling to fill starved lungs as red splattered the floor. And despite knowing the gesture was nothing more than hollow comfort in the face of inevitability, Saito had offered his hand.

Destiny made its decision and a clear stake to its claim; there was nothing that could affect the outcome. Still, he'd kept his hand held out, and sheltered the fingers which had weakly curled in against his palm.

Saito's hand was empty now. His young bones ached with the pain of someone thrice his age and his body revolted with sluggish movement. The emotional part of the mind begged him to reach for the wall and brace himself, to turn and escape these jaws of fate that would tear what little he had left to shreds. However, his resolve remained, forging on and inching forward.

Step by step, breath by breath… _bushido_. For the sake of honor, we never give up. And we never turn away, no matter how difficult.

An elderly man dressed in white emerged from the one door in the corridor that had been closed, his features remaining obscure and only coming clearly into focus when Saito neared; he wasn't of acquaintance, simply a new arrival to stand in for the untimely death of Matsumoto-sensei and knew nothing of the men who'd served here. He nodded as they faced each other and his voice was clinical when he declared the obvious. "He won't make it through the night."

Saito had known; still, his stomach wrenched and his chest tightened anew. He steeled his outward response to guard himself and remain unreadable, merely dipping his chin in solemn acknowledgment.

"You are the last he wanted to see. Take your time." The doctor bowed his head and moved away. When their shoulders paralleled, he added, "Stay until the end, if you wish. I've done all I can. But should you need me, I'm set up in the infirmary."

Saito pressed his hand to the shoji and stared down at it as the man's steps carried him off, listening to the floorboards groaning and giving way with the sounds of defeat.

 _Defeat_. The presence of loss truly was everywhere. Deafening silence echoed within this empty garrison once bustling with life and camaraderie and courtship, now inhabited by the ghosts of his fallen brothers and the few living who had yet to disband.

Soon, all would go their separate ways and the last-standing wolves of Mibu would need to learn how to hunt alone. The future was easily predictable, however; they would starve in the Meiji. Their palates would never adjust to a country burned to ashes and raised again on the cracked bedrock of corruption and outlandish ideals. It was only a matter of short weeks, possibly even days, before the Shinsengumi code of honor became too old and inflexible. And what then?

The choices were to perish along with the age they'd vowed to protect, to die with honor at the grace of the short sword—or live on as an irrelevant coward, no more than an empty shell with empty principles unneeded in the new era.

Saito had already known only one of those avenues was acceptable for himself, but the concept of even _having_ a choice was humbling. Not all were gifted with the luxury of deciding their own fates. His fingertips curled inward before stretching out again and then carefully sliding the door aside.

It was no surprise to find the outer shoji open…to find the lamp extinguished and the room illuminated only by ethereal, pale light from the sky. The tatami glowed, the pearl walls shimmered.

And in the middle of all this lay Okita.

Turning, Saito's lashes fell as he tilted his head forward and pushed the entrance to the hall closed without a sound. After taking a moment to ground himself, he opened his eyes, drew a breath, and finally pivoted.

A plethora of more important things could and should have drifted through his mind as he approached, but all Saito thought about was his extreme awareness of how the floor felt beneath his socked feet; it was a defense mechanism, employed when inner turmoil was unpermitted to show outwardly. His concentration on such mundane details—the breathing, the heartbeat, his steps—was but a distraction to keep himself pieced together in the face of devastating loss.

That term, devastating, couldn't even begin to describe what he felt, however; the defeat in the war and the end of the Shinsengumi legacy compounded as a foundation for this tragedy, and there was no word Saito could find to describe the magnitude of having the last important piece of himself torn away—especially like… _this_.

Labored breathing caused Okita's thin white blanket to shift unnaturally as he struggled to inhale and exhale; these were simple human tasks, and yet he suffered through them with such exertion that it made Saito focus on how easily he did the same. Breathing was both what he'd used to steady himself and the action that had slowly coerced the one he loved to the bleeding edge of mortality. The irony in this situation hadn't gone unnoticed.

And Okita. Two camellia flowers rested on the pillow, near cheeks once so healthy now sullen and depressed from steep weight loss. Dark patches discolored ever bright skin beneath the eyes and faded into a foreign ashen complexion. Black hair fell unbound about bony shoulders to create a stark disparity with the linens.

Yet, for a man who perched upon the doorstep of death, Saito still thought him much too beautiful. He was _always_ beautiful, whether his flesh was painted by sunlight or blood, whether the silvers and blues of night left him pallid and destiny's kiss hovered but millimeters from his mouth. But such was to be expected of Okita: a man defying every expectation, one who dared to stare the end straight in the face without surrendering his glamor or resolve.

Oh, how he would be missed.

At that, Saito dropped to seiza beside the futon and while his lips parted, he didn't recognize the whisper that left him. "Souji."

The name had been barely audible, but Okita caught it and his eyes fluttered. And as if it were just any other night, Saito found himself graced with a soft smile. It'd been a mystery, what he'd done to earn such treasure, and one he accepted would remain ever lost on him.

"…Hajime."

Dark strands of hair fell as Saito leaned forward. Without shifting his gaze, he reached blindly for the damp cloth off to the side, brushed Okita's bangs back with particular care, and then began to dab at the exposed forehead. "Water?"

Okita barely moved to indicate he had no desire.

They remained staring intently for several moments, before Saito stippled the nearest cheek and broke away to concentrate on folding the cloth again on his lap—a distraction, as he mentally shuffled through what was best to say next. It was unlike him to thrash about in an undesirable situation without knowing how to proceed and for once, Okita was one step ahead of him.

"Hajime, remember…" This brought his attention back to Okita now staring at the ceiling with a breathy, arduous laugh. "…Remember that time? Autumn, almost…almost two years ago." His voice, even as a whisper, was weak. "When I was, I was combing your hair. And I told you…" His lashes fell again for a beat. "…about my plans."

"For when the war ended," Saito supplied quietly.

"Mm." Okita's chin dipped. "That night…so unusual. Warm. And I said…" His expression contorted without warning and he turned to the blanket, beginning to cough. "I said—" As the fit turned worse, his eyes squeezed together and he wretched, curling in on himself.

"You said," Saito filled in, reaching out to stroke Okita's hair as he calmed, "that when this war was over, you would buy property." He continued the caress, his touch delicate as if he were handling antique lace. "And on that property, you would plant dozens of camellia trees on it. As commemoration."

Okita swallowed and nodded. He straightened himself again, falling back to the center of the pillow. "And—"

"And you asked me if I would stay with you to watch them grow," Saito finished softly. "I said yes."

The tiny smile returned, several moments of silence passing before Okita's lips parted, but nothing left them except the sound of heavy breaths. Finally, the space between his lashes glassed over and he forced out, "I'm... _sorry_. Hajime."

Saito's toes curled in. "Shh." Their eyes met and he steeled himself against the impulse to mirror the upheaval of emotion. "You have nothing to apologize for." He knew this reply was much too simple, and couldn't deny it was more for his own good. Saito cocked his head toward the door leading to the porch. "Souji, look. Did you see the fireflies?"

With his face falling to the side, Okita panted, "I love…them, so beautiful." Quiet descended again and for some time, the pair watched flecks of light drifting, fading, and reappearing. There was a certain hypnotical quality in the scenery which Saito used to strengthen himself. Remaining firm and unshakable was the least he could do now, allowing Okita to pass on peacefully without seeing him distressed.

There would be time to confront his grief, to make his own decisions. After this night, in fact, Saito would have all the time in the world.

"Hajime. Tomorrow—"

"You'll kiss me." Okita's gaze found Saito's when he was interrupted. "Like you always do. We'll eat our morning rice and soup. It's your turn for kitchen duty."

Okita exhaled through his nose and his lips pulled further out to his cheeks.

"Then, training until noon. When the sun is hot and bright, we'll stop to eat again." Saito began stroking his hair once more. "And then, the afternoon drills." He breathed out and allowed the hint of a smile to show. "You'll scare the new recruits."

He'd been so mentally focused on vocalizing this fantasy meant to comfort, so distracted by ruffling locks of thick brown hair, that he hadn't noticed the change in Okita's expression. And when he was unexpectedly interrupted, something within Saito jolted, unprepared for what he would hear. "And when—"

"Hajime, live." Okita's eyes shut and he swallowed before reopening them. "Please promise me."

Saito's hand froze. His mouth remained open in mid-sentence.

"The war…it's lost. But promise me." Raising his hand from beneath the cover, Okita lifted it and pressed his to Saito's, pulling it away from his face so that their digits could entwine in the small space separating them. "Promise me you'll live." He squeezed Saito's hand with as much force as he could. "That you'll find…someone, that they'll—" he heaved, "look after you."

The Tokugawa era had crumbled to ash and bone. Kondo had been executed. Hijikata, killed in action. Of every troop captain, only Saito and Nagakura remained living without mortal wound or illness. Edo was dead, seppuku was the particular fashion in Mibu now, and what little was left of the Shinsengumi was entirely unfit for the Meiji.

Yet still, Okita made such a demand.

Saito shook his head. "I can't promise you that."

" _Promise_ me," Okita grated. "It was my job, staying with you. I wanted it." His head rocked from side to side in a display of frustration or regret, or both. "But now…now…" Clearly distressed, he began stirring and Saito shushed him again, returning and surpassing the already weakened grasp. His lips trembled as he begged again in a whisper. " _Please_."

The universe collapsed on itself, shrinking until it encompassed only the two of them as their eyes remained locked. How Saito could promise to achieve the impossible was unfathomable, but the desperation in Okita's eyes prompted him to react.

Even if it was meaningless later and even if it were only for the moment, if his assurance gave Okita peace, then Saito would oblige.

At last, he swallowed and pulled Okita's hand to his mouth; there, he pursed a gentle kiss on the back of clammy fingertips, then nodded several times and mouthed 'okay.'

Smiling again, Okita nodded back. "One more...thing." With no change in his expression, he continued, "Keep holding my hand?" His fingers tightened slightly. "Please."

"I will." Saito's voice diminished to a whisper. He hardened himself, swallowed the emotion threatening to surface.

"Thank you." Okita sighed and his lashes fell. "Hajime."

And though he clung to life so vehemently, that had been the last time Saito ever looked into Okita Souji's eyes.

Seconds turned to minutes and minutes possibly to hours, but Saito couldn't have been sure. Time itself became meaningless, measurable only by shaky inhalations from the futon after a certain point.

Fireflies flickered in the grass beyond the porch, leaving traces of halcyonic golden lines that shimmered in their wake before dissipating. Saito observed them as Okita's breaths steadily became more and more shallow, watched absently as one found its way into the room.

It lazed about for a while, landed on the tatami, investigated with antennae, then lifted back into the air and made its way outside.

And in that same second, the firefly hadn't been the only one to leave.

For long after, Saito held Okita's limp hand and stared vacantly at nothing.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading!

This chapter was so ridiculously angsty and I'm sorry. The story will end in the light, though. 3 I also want to mention that there are historical inaccuracies (the location of Okita's death and tomb, for example), but they were made for the sake of Drama™. lol

Summary, if you skipped: Before heading back home, Saito takes Sano to a cemetery in Kyoto without telling him why. His plan is to reveal bits and pieces of his past to Sano, but not being one to easily talk from the heart, he isn't sure how to begin. On the way there, Saito tells Sano a little about Okita, and Sano puts two and two together that Saito and Okita were close. Saito confirms they were as he stops before his tomb. A flashback describes the night Okita died and how he made Saito promise to live on, despite the war being lost and death being everywhere around him. Saito doesn't believe he can make such a promise, but agrees only to give Okita peace. Okita then passes away, leaving Saito to stare vacantly past the fireflies drifting about the yard.


End file.
